Volanta

When I bought my first apartment

I was a college student.

Bricks and painted ladders down the side,
a heater and air conditioner provided.

The tenant had moved out in a hurry-
books laid scattered in cupboards next to almost white
dishes. A row of cups hung neatly from the wooden rack.

Clean pans were still on the electric stove.

At first, I minded. It felt like I was invading
like someone had purposely left their life here
to irritate me. So I could see the differences,
the neatness, the messiness,
the humanity.

I wanted to pack it up, ship it off,
give it away- but instead I peered.
And I looked and I scavenged.

In the closet, it was divided between color
and black. I surmised a death(or multiple)
or extreme organization. 

I couldn't tell gender.
 

I found a multitude of thimbles

and imagined you putting them on your fingers

clinking them together in song.

You never bought single debuts

but “collected works”

your whole entire library were dictionaries

of lives

and what they wrote

anthologies and books kept in

cardboard boxes that were cheaper

bought together

did you hate waiting?

I felt like an unwanted guest
paying to observe the stilled life
of a person I still couldn't contemplate

but I liked you
whoever you are.

The more I explored
the place you laughed cried loved a love so much
hid slept drank sang
the more I fell in love with you.

It is like falling in love
with the facts of the book
without photographs or pictures
"diagrams" and observations
a carefully studied specimen.

The more I looked(colorful viynls,
a missing turntable, a bag of black and white

buttons, hidden bottles
of aging wine, soft knitted blankets like forest ground,
a 6 day overdue library book
I took the fine for, sneakers that didn't smell
bad, a coin jar just started or just used)

the more I ingested you.

If you ever came back,
I thought,
it would be very hard for me to
give up any of you.